


Sweet Within My Hand

by i_eat_men_like_air



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Bathing, Fluff, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Nipple Play, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon Fix-It, Service Top Francis Crozier, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Trans Male Character, Trans!Francis Crozier, Vaginal Fingering, mild authority kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-27 15:55:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30125241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_eat_men_like_air/pseuds/i_eat_men_like_air
Summary: ‘Oi, calm down lad, it’s not as exciting as all that,’ Francis huffed, chuckling, as Thomas nipped at his neck and began unbuttoning his waistcoat, ‘I was only wondering if you might like a bath. Nothing so deviant as you seem to be expecting.’
Relationships: Francis Crozier/Thomas Jopson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19
Collections: The Terror Bingo





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for The Terror Bingo prompt 'Bathing/Washing'.  
> Francis' genitals are referred to as prick, pearl, cock and cunt, he has not had top surgery, and his chest is referred to neutrally i.e. chest, shape.

_Violets, I hold you_   
_ Sweet within my hand. _   
_Whisper what he told you_   
_ In the sunset land. _

_Violets, my spirit_   
_ Feels what you intend. _   
_In my soul I hear it:_   
_ "Think upon thy friend." _

_ Violets by Ruby Archer _

It had been a little over a year since James Clark Ross and the _Enterprise_ crew had discovered their camp and dragged them home. Thomas had been at death’s door for a fair time, even before they arrived, and when Ross’ head had poked into the tent, Francis had all but fallen to his knees and kissed his boots. 

Now, back in London, Thomas was still not entirely healed. His complexion was still a little sallow, his hair was thin, and still growing back in places, and his ribs still pressed against his skin like the shell of a dying ship, but he was the most beautiful thing Francis had ever seen. And, more importantly than anything, he was alive. He would not die, not anytime soon, and that was all that Francis could wish for. 

He had spent all of his time sat between Thomas and James as they recovered, alternating between batting away curious passers-by and threatening them both to ‘ _stay in bed God damn it!_ ’, and generally fretting and not getting enough sleep. McDonald had come by a few times (hollow-cheeked and exhausted as he was) and chided him gently to get some rest, but he couldn’t bear it. Not until he had known the two men would live. 

James was living a few houses down, now, with Le Vesconte. Both men were recovering well, much to Francis’ relief, and he would often see them strolling through the park in front of their house: a pair of little birds, slowly regaining their shining plumage. 

Francis and Thomas had moved into the little townhouse soon after Thomas had been declared fit enough to leave hospital, and the inquest into the expedition had been completed. It had been a grueling, humiliating process that Francis was eager to forget, as was Thomas. 

Living together had seemed like the natural progression of things, an inevitability that they both welcomed. Of course a (now knighted and promoted, much to his confusion) rear admiral would need a manservant whilst ashore, and wasn’t it _fortunate_ that Thomas Jopson was such an excellent steward that Francis Crozier would hire him, even in such a state of ill-health. If it seemed a little unorthodox, to have a sickly, live-in steward who could barely walk five steps without needing a rest, not a soul had dared say it to his face.

James and Le Vesconte knew of the true nature of their relationship - having a similar relationship themselves - as did McDonald (who was now living with Goodsir _and_ Stanley, the madman), and Blanky (who Francis had often shared a tumble with in the distant past). But, besides that select few, their relationship was purely that of employer and employee. 

There was a soft clatter from the kitchen, and Francis looked up from the newspaper, in the direction of the noise. It was around the time they usually had dinner, but Francis had explicitly told Thomas not to worry about preparing food until he was entirely well (or as well as he could be). They had a cook come in the morning and make meals for the day as needed, to be heated through at lunchtime and in the evening. 

‘Thomas!’ Francis called, setting the paper down on the coffee table, ‘is that you in there?’

There was a quiet shuffling from the kitchen, and another _clunk_ of plates or pans knocking together, before Thomas poked his head into view.

‘Yes sir? Do you need anything?’ his voice was far too innocent for Francis’ liking, and his face was set in a sweet mask of virtuous confusion. Francis raised an eyebrow at him.

‘Thomas,’ he warned, softly, ‘what are you doing in there?’

‘Oh, nothing sir, just -’

‘ _Thomas._ ’

Thomas, his face now gently chastised, stepped out of the kitchen. Francis shook his head, a fond smile creeping over his face despite his best efforts; it was impossible to be angry, or even mildly annoyed, at Thomas. There he was ( _alive_!) standing before Francis, all pale, olive skin and wide, blue eyes, dressed as neatly as he ever was - all of Francis’ irritation at him melted away.

‘You shouldn’t be doing _anything_ in the kitchen, darling boy,’ he murmured, standing up with a grunt and crossing the small room until he was almost nose to nose with his lover, ‘you shouldn’t be doing _anything_ _anywhere_. You should be resting.’

Francis cupped Thomas’ face gently, rubbing his thumbs over the slight, rough shadow that covered his jaw at this time of evening, looking fondly into his soft, pale eyes. Thomas leaned into his touch, blinking softly like a satisfied kitten, ‘I know, sir,’ Thomas sighed, ‘I know - I do - but God if I don’t do anything I’ll go mad. Even if it’s just tidying up the kitchen. I’m not built to do nothing, sir, you know that.’

Francis shook his head again, rubbing small circles over Thomas cheeks and jawline; he had asked Thomas to drop the honorific, they were lovers, no longer a captain and a steward, but equals in all things, in Francis’ mind. Thomas, however, had refused, giving a soft, but persuasive, speech on how he preferred to call Francis ‘sir’ during ‘working hours’ as he put it. He had said it felt correct, to refer to him as such, and Francis hadn’t the heart to argue. One day he would broach the subject again, to try and unravel a little more of Thomas’ often overly-deferential habits, but not until Thomas was entirely well. He didn’t want to change so much for the lad all in one go.

And there was a selfish reason for waiting as well, one that Thomas was well-aware of, given the glint in his eyes whenever he called him ‘sir’. Francis was ashamed of it - always feeling that he was taking advantage of Thomas in some way - but a tiny, stubborn place in his chest _did_ so enjoy it when Thomas called him ‘sir’. The title had no effect on him, when spoken by others, but there was a mischievous, heated glimmer in the way Thomas used it that made Francis’ stomach clench. 

‘I do know, love, but Christ alive you scare the wits out of me when you do _anything_ , let alone when you start mucking about in the kitchen,’ Francis stroked his hands down Thomas’ neck, down slender shoulders, gently muscled arms, and took a gentle hold of his lover’s hands, ‘and you can say I worry too much all you like, damn it, but _mmph!_ ’

He was cut off by Thomas’ mouth, pressing firmly against his own - ever so warm, ever so soft - and pulling away before he could properly respond. 

‘You _do_ worry too much, sir,’ Thomas smiled softly, squeezing Francis’ hands, ‘but I appreciate it nonetheless.’

Thomas kissed him again, and Francis grumbled quietly, trying to continue speaking, until Thomas slipped his tongue between his lips and his mind went briefly blank; all thoughts of speech wiped away. He wrapped his arms around Thomas’ waist, pulling him gently closer - he was still terrified to handle him roughly; fine china, was his Thomas, and he would be treated as such - and humming happily as Thomas draped his arms around his neck. 

Francis sighed into the kiss, losing himself gently in the soft swipes of Thomas’ tongue, the warm, soft texture of his lips, the sweetness of his breath. He would kiss Thomas for days on end, if he could, but an idea was slowly forming at the back of his mind, and he would have to pull away to enact it. Thomas cocked his head - slightly, concerned - as Francis carefully broke the kiss.

‘May I ask something, love?’ 

Thomas’ concern melted away, his eyes brightening a little at the question, leaning in to kiss at Francis’ lightly stubbled jaw and neck, ‘Oh _absolutely_ , sir.’

‘ _Oi_ , calm down lad, it’s not as exciting as all that,’ Francis huffed, chuckling, as Thomas nipped at this neck and began unbuttoning his waistcoat, ‘I was only wondering if you might like a bath. Nothing so deviant as you seem to be expecting.’

Francis rested his hands on Thomas’ hips, waiting patiently for an answer. They had done this a few times before, particularly when Thomas had not been well enough to bathe himself, but more recently it had become a near-meditative experience, for the both of them. Francis could focus entirely on cleaning Thomas from top to toe, massaging him, caressing him, kissing him as he went, and Thomas could let go, losing himself safely in Francis’ strong, capable hands. 

Thomas smiled at him, almost shyly, as if he were imposing, ‘You needn’t do that, sir.’

Francis swatted him - gently, so gently - on the arse, ‘I know that, you daft, lovely thing, but I want to. Allow an old man his indulgences, eh?’

* * *

It was a chore, dragging the bath from its cupboard, and filling it until Francis was satisfied, and by the time he had everything arranged he was sweating (and in need of a bath himself), but the sweet, bright smile on Thomas’ face was beyond worth it. Francis spread one of the large, soft bath towels out underneath it, and stoked the fire until it was blazing cheerfully. The room filled with warmth, steam from the bath mixing comfortably with the small amount of smoke that was not swallowed by the chimney.

Finally, Francis set the small bottles of soap and oil, and the soft, clean washcloth, on the coffee table; hanging a clean towel from the clothes horse by the fire. The soap was violet-scented and sweet; Thomas liked it, but would never buy it for himself (‘far too expensive, sir’), so Francis would often create little reasons to gift him a bottle of it when he was running low. He enjoyed the scent as well; violets would always remind him of Thomas now, ‘til his dying day.

‘Come here, love, let’s get you out of those clothes,’ Francis beckoned Thomas over.

Thomas stood quietly, watching without critique as Francis slowly, carefully unbuttoned his waistcoat; removed his necktie; eased him out of his shirt. Francis folded everything as best he could, mindful of Thomas’ general desire for tidiness, and set the folded clothes down on the table, to be dealt with later. 

He turned back to Thomas, and felt a swell in his chest as he looked at his lover, ‘Finest lad I’ve ever seen,’ he murmured, pressing a kiss to Thomas’ neck, ‘finest lad in all the world, I’d reckon.’

Thomas scoffed, quietly, but did not protest; he knew better than that. He rested his hands on Francis’ arms as Francis kissed softly up his neck, inhaling the scent of him - all delicate, sweet violet water and the smallest hint of perspiration. Francis hummed, satisfied, as he pressed their lips together, cupping Thomas’ face in his hands, running his tongue in soft, questioning lines across Thomas’ lips until they parted - allowing him access to the warm, wet cavern of his mouth. 

Thomas moaned softly, his hands flexing a little where they rested on Francis’ arms, as Francis ran his hands down his chest. Francis smiled into the kiss, circling dark, sensitive nipples, rubbing slowly, gently - drinking in the little sounds that Thomas made as he touched him. He gasped, softly, as Thomas’ hands moved and rested at the small of his back, pulling their bodies closer.

‘Christ, lad,’ Francis breathed, pinching softly - always so softly - at Thomas’ nipples, drawing a sweet whimper from his lover, ‘and I’ve not even got your trousers off.’

Thomas chuckled, running his hands up and down Francis’ back, ‘Well you just have such lovely hands, sir, and such a way with words,’ he pressed a kiss to Francis’ jawline, sucking gently at the rough skin, ‘it’s not so _hard_ for you to get me all worked up.’

At the word ‘hard’, he pressed his hips against Francis’, and Francis laughed as the achingly hot, hard line of Thomas’ prick ground against the front of his trousers, ‘Oh aye?’

‘Aye, sir,’ Thomas nuzzled at Francis’ neck, hands still roaming up and down his back, squeezing the soft swell of his arse, pressing his cockstand against the slight pearl of Francis' prick in a way that made his legs shiver.

Francis shook his head fondly, groaning softly at the friction, letting his lover have his way for a moment before pulling away. Thomas pouted a little at the loss of contact, and Francis chuckled, ‘I’ve still got to get those bloody trousers off you, lad, else I’ll have to toss you in the tub with them on.’

Thomas’ face soured for a moment - even the _mention_ of his clothes being treated in such a manner tended to have that effect on him - and Francis laughed again, resting his hands at the front of the offending trousers and giving Thomas' prick a gentle squeeze through the rough wool. 

‘I promised you a bath, love, and a bath you’ll get,’ Francis murmured, unbuttoning Thomas quickly; he knelt, tugging Thomas’ trousers (and drawers, for efficiency’s sake) down around his ankles, gesturing for him to step out of them, and pulling his socks off as he went, ‘now, isn’t that better?’

‘Oh yes, sir, much better,’ Thomas’ hands were on Francis’ shoulders now, rubbing them gently as Francis eased himself back to his feet. Francis kissed him again, before taking a small step back to admire his lover.

He was beautiful. Francis hadn’t the eloquence or presence of mind to describe him in a more poetic manner. Thomas was beautiful. The most beautiful man in the world. Long, pale limbs, all dusted with dark hair; a slender chest, running down to slender hips, running to the hard, pink line of his prick, where it stood sweetly against the dip of his stomach. 

Thomas sighed, folding his arms, as Francis took all of him in, ‘You do know it’s rude to stare, sir?’

Francis blinked, looking up to see a dusky, teasing smirk on Thomas’ face, and blushing a little. He liked to look at Thomas - what man wouldn’t? - but he had promised him a bath, and he needed to pull himself together before the water cooled down, no matter _how_ inviting his lover appeared.

‘My sincerest apologies, Mr. Jopson, now will you get in that bloody bath before the water goes frigid,’ Francis chuckled, raising his hands in mock defeat as Thomas splashed some of the bathwater at him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soft, bath-centric smut.

‘Is it hot enough, love?’

Thomas grinned, softly, as he stuck his hand properly into the water, ‘It’s perfect, sir, thank you.’

Francis held out an arm, letting Thomas lean heavily on him as he clambered into the tub and settled himself down. His lover sank into the water with a loud, luxuriant moan that sent a shiver down Francis’ spine. 

He pulled out the little stool from beneath the coffee table - left there for these rare occasions - and sat at the head of the bath, leaning on the warm, smooth copper and ruffling Thomas’ hair with a chuckle, ‘Good, eh?’

Thomas moaned sweetly, stretching his arms up and wrapping them awkwardly around Francis’ neck, leaning his head back against the rim of the tub, ‘More than, sir.’

Francis raised an eyebrow, flicking a little of the water at Thomas, ‘Less of the  _ sir, _ now, thank you, lad. You’re in the bloody bath!’

Thomas sighed, releasing his gentle hold on Francis’ neck and shuffling around so they were sitting face to face, ‘I’ll call you  _ sir _ if I want to,’ he paused flicking water at Francis with a smirk, ‘ _ sir _ .’

‘You’re a contrary little thing, aren’t you?’

‘Only for you, sir.’

Francis chuckled, leaning forwards and pressing a kiss to Thomas’ nose. His face was rapidly warming up, the heat of the water giving him a sweet, healthy flush that made Francis’ heart clench. Tiny beads of sweat were rolling steadily down from his hairline; Francis brushed them away, idly, resting a hand on Thomas’ warm, damp cheek. 

Thomas smiled at him, his eyes bright, shining blue against the pink of his cheeks, ‘I have one more request,  _ sir _ , contrary as that may seem?’

Francis stroked his thumb across Thomas’ lips, smiling in return, ‘Ask away, love.’

‘Will you undress for me? No more than is comfortable, sir, but if I’m going to have such a lovely bath I may as well have a view to match.’

Francis laughed, shaking his head and leaning back from the tub. He didn’t mind undressing in front of his lover - Thomas had seen him in every conceivable state of dress and undress, at this point - but he appreciated the clarification nonetheless. Most of his previous lovers (a decidedly small number) had not been so considerate. 

He finished unbuttoning his waistcoat, chuckling as Thomas made a show of wetting his hair, and pulled his shirt off over his head, tossing it to the ground. Thomas tutted, raising an eyebrow at the careless treatment, but stayed silent as Francis made short work of his socks and trousers. He left his underthings on, not wanting to be exposed in his peculiar altogether quite yet. 

Thomas eyed him appreciatively, grinning as he raked his eyes over the soft arch of Francis’ shoulders, the round swell of his chest, the thickness of his thighs and belly. Francis should have felt scrutinised under such a gaze - pinned open like a scientific specimen - but when Thomas’ eyes were on him, he felt nothing but peace. Thomas knew him, and saw him, and loved him, as he was. As a man. Francis had nothing to fear from Thomas, and he leaned forwards once more to kiss him as the sweet, bright wave of adoration in his stomach threatened to overwhelm.

Thomas moaned softly into the kiss, cupping Francis’ face gently and resting their foreheads together as Francis gathered himself. 

‘Turn around, love, let’s get you cleaned up,’ Francis murmured, reaching for the soap and the washcloth. 

Thomas did as he was bid, lying down carefully and closing his eyes with a soft, trusting smile that made Francis’ stomach turn somersaults. Francis dipped the cloth in the water and poured a little of the sweet-smelling soap onto it, working it into a lather. He inhaled, deeply, filling his head with violets and woodsmoke and  _ Thomas _ . On the first stroke of the washcloth over his chest, Thomas moaned, letting his head fall back by Francis’ chest. 

Francis pressed a kiss to his temple, shuffling forwards and letting his mind steady as he set - slowly, carefully - to the task at hand. 

He shuffled the stool around the bathtub as he worked. Now applying more soap to Thomas’ chest, now to his arms, now to his shoulders and back. With every swipe of the cloth Thomas sank deeper into the water, letting out little moans and sighs as Francis moved.

He would work below the water soon enough, but for now he was perfectly content to lather the soap across his lover’s upper half, humming happily as he felt Thomas’ muscles relax under his touch. He gave Thomas’ shoulder a gentle squeeze, prompting him to sit up so he could wash his back.

Thomas shuffled forwards a little, giving Francis a lovely, sweeping view of his back; all smooth, damp skin, beset by small moles and freckles, a soft down of hair at his shoulders, and the arch of his spine beneath it all. Francis ran a finger, every so lightly, up his lover’s spine, and was treated to a splash of water in the face as Thomas jerked at the contact.

‘Easy there, love,’ Francis chuckled, wetting the cloth again and massaging the soap gently into Thomas’ skin.

Thomas reached back and gave Francis’ hand a squeeze, pulling it forwards gently and kissing the scarred, freckles knuckles with a grin, ‘Well if you will go tickling me like that, sir...’

Francis leaned in, wrapping his free arm gently around Thomas’ chest, pressing soft kisses to the wet, soapy skin of his shoulder, ‘Noted, dear.’

Thomas hummed sweetly, smiling up at him with a soft, kind expression. Francis gave him a squeeze, before pulling away for a moment and setting the damp washcloth down on the towel: the next part he preferred to do with his hands. 

Thomas whimpered softly as Francis began to knead his shoulders, pressing firmly into the knotted muscles and working them open, washing the violet-scented soap off as he went. Francis cupped handfuls of the water, pouring it over Thomas’ skin, watching it trickle slowly down the firm muscles of his shoulders and back. He shuffled the stool around to the side of the bath, kissing Thomas’ cheek as he went, and began to wash the soap from the soft hair of his chest and stomach.

Thomas gazed at Francis, sleepy eyes following the movements of his hands as he gently lifted his arms, rinsing the soap from the thick, black hair of his armpits. Francis lost himself as he worked, hands roaming over his lover’s body, firm and gentle as needed. 

Thomas’ skin was so soft, and the smell of violets made Francis’ head spin pleasantly. He teased out the little mats in Thomas’ chest hair, wetting it down until it lay smoothly against his skin. He rubbed firmly across Thomas’ stomach, pleased to find that his ribs were becoming less pronounced by the day. He gently, carefully, scraped the blunt tips of his fingers over Thomas’ neck, massaging the tight muscles on either side.

Every small, meditative part of Francis’ work, designed to turn Thomas into a peaceful, melting pudding of a man, gave Francis a pleasure he could never truly put into words. It stilled his mind; it warmed the very core of him; it made him happy. And, more importantly: it made Thomas happy. It allowed his lover to breathe, and to rest - things he so rarely allowed himself to do.

‘Going to do your hair now, hm?’ Francis murmured, picking up the stool and setting it at the head of the tub. 

Thomas nodded, slowly, his movements sleepy and soft. Francis chuckled, pressing his lips to the curve of Thomas’ neck. He scooped up a handful of the water, and let it pour over Thomas’ head, repeating the motion slowly, steadily; hypnotised as the water rippled through Thomas’ hair, until it was wet through. Francis massaged his scalp gently, mindful of the shorter patches of hair that Thomas said were still sore if touched too roughly. 

He poured a little more of the soap into his hand, lathering it slowly, enjoying the swell of violets in the air as it foamed between his palms. Thomas leaned into his touch, as he began massaging the soap into his hair and scalp. He kept his movements gentle and steady, working slow, careful circles through Thomas’ hair, marvelling at how it had grown back so beautifully. 

Thomas sighed, arching his back gently, as Francis worked; broad, flat palms rubbing over his scalp while thick, calloused fingers raked gently through his hair, making sure the soap was lathered into every soft, dark inch of it. 

Francis rolled his shoulders lightly, stretching out a little of the ache that had settled between them, and began to clean the soap gently from Thomas’ hair; steadily pouring handfuls of water over his lover, combing his fingers through soaked, sweet-smelling strands until all of the soap was rinsed free. He carefully brushed the hair from Thomas’ eyes, slicking it down slowly until it was parted in the way that Thomas preferred: neat and even. 

Francis finished his exploration - his mapping - of Thomas’ head upper half with a smiling, peaceable sigh, settling back onto the stool to admire his handiwork. Thomas’ eyes were half-closed, pale blue irises peeking through the thick, dark curtain of his eyelashes, and he was smiling peacefully, his head resting against the edge of the tub. A gentle sheen of sweat covered his face, highlighting fine cheekbones and soft, plush lips. Francis shuffled the stool forwards, quietly, until his chest pressed against the warm copper of the tub.

Thomas blinked, slowly; so much like a sleepy, satisfied cat as he stretched and leaned forwards. He cupped Francis’ face gently, and kissed him; Francis smiled against his lover’s lips, sighing happily as Thomas wrapped an arm around his neck, deepening the kiss until his nose dug into Francis’ cheek, soft breath ghosting over rough skin.

Francis stroked Thomas’ flank gently, rubbing his thumb carefully over the outline of his ribcage until his hand reached the warm, soapy water. He dipped slowly into the water, chuckling as Thomas’ breath hitched. 

‘Interested, are you, love?’ Francis murmured, kissing the red spots that had appeared on Thomas’ cheeks.

‘Very interested, sir,’ Thomas breathed out, his free hand snaking down to cup Francis’ chest.

Francis grinned, letting Thomas’ head rest on his shoulder as his hand sunk lower into the water, ever so slowly, until he found the twitching, velveteen prick that he loved so much. Thomas sighed, kissing Francis’ shoulder, his fingers stroking the delicate skin of Francis’ chest and pinching softly at his nipple. Francis gasped, the soft, pruny tips of Thomas’ fingers sending a shiver of lust to his prick. Thomas had such beautiful hands: long slender fingers, nimble and steady; nails always so neatly trimmed; broad, soft palms - all so confident and calm, where Francis’ own hands were so often shaken and nervous.

Francis cupped Thomas’ prick gently, tracing his fingers along the underside, following the thin vein that he knew so well, until he settled the pad of his thumb beneath Thomas’ crown, massaging the sensitive skin firmly. Thomas twitched against him, the water splashing softly, and his fingers left Francis’ chest to tangle in his hair, pressing their lips together as Francis began to move his hand in slow, steady strokes.

Thomas shuddered, letting out a moan as his hips began to roll softly beneath the water. Francis pulled his foreskin back carefully, exposing the soft, firm head of Thomas’ prick and rubbing his thumb over the slit of it. Thomas whimpered, rubbing his face against Francis’ shoulder, cat-like and desperate. 

Francis stroked him firmly; he knew Thomas didn’t care for featherlight touches in this area (‘it makes me feel like my skin doesn’t fit, sir’), and he gripped him as tightly as he dared; hands steady as he focussed entirely on Thomas’ pleasure. He curled his free arm around Thomas’ shoulders, holding him carefully as he frigged him, letting out a grunt as Thomas began to mouth over his collarbones - soft, kitten-like licks and nips against sensitive, soft skin.

Francis groaned, twisting his hand on Thomas’ prick, as Thomas ran his teeth gently over his nipple, biting softly at the stiff, pink nub - chuckling softly as Francis bowed his back, almost doubling over as a shivering, burning jolt of desire shot through him. 

‘You’re a devil, sometimes, y’know?’ Francis murmured, stroking Thomas prick a little faster, water splashing a little over the side of the tub as he moved.

‘ _ Oh _ \-  _ ah _ \- only for you, sir,’ Thomas breathed out, his arms now clutching at Francis’ neck, face buried against his chest, ‘ _ Christ,  _ only for you -  _ God - _ your hand, sir,  _ fuck _ \- so  _ fucking  _ good _ , ahh _ …’

Thomas’ breath hitched as Francis pressed his thumb to his frenulum, rubbing firm, fast circles against the tender flesh, his palm rubbing slickly against the underside of his prick, ‘That’s it lad, that’s it,’ Francis murmured, his voice thick with desire, urging him on, ‘come apart for me Tom - that’s it - such a good lad for me - there you go - there you go -  _ there _ …’

Thomas reached his climax with a shuddering, gasping moan, burying his face in Francis’ chest and whimpering sweetly as Francis stroked him through it - movements slowing until he was simply cupping Thomas prick in his hand, holding the slowly softening, sensitive flesh as he pressed a kiss to Thomas’ damp, violet-sweet hair. 

Thomas leaned into the kiss, his breath brushing over Francis’ bare shoulders and chest; the rise and fall of his chest slowing gently, gently, until his crisis had settled. He looked up at Francis, a slow, easy grin spreading over his face, and wrapped his arms around his neck, pressing their foreheads together.

Francis chuckled, pulling his hand from the bathwater and embracing Thomas in turn, ‘I love you, Thomas, devilish as you are,’ he murmured, stroking the rough, dark stubble that covered his lover’s jaw.

‘And I love  _ you _ , Francis, stubborn as  _ you _ are,’ Thomas purred, bumping their noses together with a low, soft chuckle. 

‘So I’m Francis now, am I?’

‘Well, it’s gone seven, isn’t it?’

Francis looked up at the clock with a huff, shaking his head and grinning back at Thomas, ‘Time flies, I suppose, love.’

Thomas kissed him, softly, lapping gently at Francis’ lips and tongue. Francis sighed into the kiss, letting Thomas explore as he wished; he would truly never deny the man a thing. 

‘Francis?’

‘Yes, love?’

‘You’re all wet.’

Francis looked down, taking in the soft, pudgy shape of his body - all pale and freckled - and scoffed, ‘Aye, you’ve got water all over me, lad.’

‘Well that’s hardly my fault is it?’ Thomas chuckled, leaning in and giving him a peck on the lips, ‘and  _ besides _ , darlin’, I wasn’t talking about the water.’

Francis swatted him on the shoulder with a laugh. He could feel himself blushing, as Thomas’ eyes ran over his body - all pink, pale softness; a chest that swelled too far to be hidden by a few extra layers; a belly that stuck out over his underthings; thighs and hips that pressed against his clothes at odd angles - a body that he never felt entirely at peace with. But then, he looked up at Thomas, and his heart skipped a beat. It was always like this. He would lose himself for a moment - just for a moment - in the unwanted curves of his body, and then he would look up. Thomas’ face - as it always was in these moments - a picture of sweet, smouldering desire, wiping away any and all of Francis’ doubts.

‘You’re perfect, y’know?’ Thomas murmured, leaning his head against his forearms on the edge of the tub, ‘handsomest man in the Royal Navy, I’d say. Fitzjames be damned.’

Francis poked him, gently, in the arm, ‘You need your eyes checking, lad.’

‘Oh I don’t think so, my sight’s just fine,  _ sir _ ,’ the set of Thomas’ jaw changed as he spoke, from satiated and peaceful to burning and  _ wanting _ . The honorific sent a shiver down Francis’ spine; Thomas all but growled, now, no longer a soft, sleeping housecat, ‘Will you let me show you?’

Francis was entranced. He always was, in truth, but the way Thomas’ demeanour could change so quickly, and in such an intoxicating manner, made his stomach flip - and his prick ache.

‘Show me, lad,’ Francis whispered, shuddering as Thomas sat up in the tub, leaning over the edge and shoving a hand roughly down the front of Francis’ drawers.

‘Oh but you  _ are _ wet, sir…’ Thomas murmured, tracing a fingertip up the opening of Francis’ cunt.

Francis shivered, his head falling forwards as Thomas pressed a finger inside him, gathering slick, hot wetness and stroking it up over his cockstand.

‘ _ Jesus,  _ Thomas,’ Francis gasped, the muscles in his legs twitching as Thomas’ fingers began to rub quickly over his prick.

It would not take long; he was so worked up from the sight of Thomas falling apart beneath him that it would only be a matter of moments before his crisis took him. Francis groaned - deep in his chest - as Thomas pressed two fingers inside his cunt, his thumb now sweeping in quick, rough circles over the throbbing pearl of his prick. 

‘So lovely for me, sir - and you’re all mine,’ Thomas whispered, his breath tickling and hot at Francis’ ear, ‘so fucking wet for me - aren’t you, sir? Prick all hard and slick and aching, all just for me…all for me...’

Thomas crooked his fingers as he spoke, angling them upwards and rubbing assuredly over the spot inside Francis that sent a wave of goosebumps up his spine. Francis let out a whimper at Thomas’ words, pressing his mouth to Thomas’ shoulder and gasping deeply, all the breath seemingly forced from his body as Thomas fucked him with his fingers. Francis shuddered, grinding his hips against Thomas’ fingers and gasping as his lover - fiercely, meticulously - pushed him over the edge: his release sweeping over him, a sea gale, a storm - blinding and breathtaking by turn. 

He gripped the edge of the bath, his breath coming out in short, sharp puffs, as Thomas whispered soft, gentle reassurances: calling him  _ good _ ,  _ sweet _ ,  _ perfect _ . Francis did not have the capacity to deny it, for the moment, instead choosing to tangle his fingers gently in Thomas’ hair: kissing him to silence.

Thomas hummed softly against Francis’ lips, resting his hands at his collarbones, and smiling broadly as Francis pulled away with a chuckle, ‘No need to look so smug, you daft man.’

‘No, sir?’ Thomas asked, his face an entirely unconvincing mask of curious innocence, ‘only, I think I’m entitled to a little smugness, sir, seen as it looks like  _ you _ need a bath now.’

Francis nudged him, laughing, and Thomas chuckled softly in turn, his eyes bright and shimmering in the fading firelight, ‘Aye, well, you let me worry about that, love. Let me get you dried off, eh?’

Thomas nodded, pecking him on the cheek with a wink. Francis eased himself up off of the stool, rolling his shoulders out and stretching his legs before grabbing the towel from the clothes horse. He offered an arm to Thomas, who took it, gingerly, easing himself up and out of the tub - slowly, carefully - as Francis supported him. 

Francis wrapped the towel around Thomas, who immediately nuzzled up against him with a gentle, satisfied moan.

‘Thank you, Francis, for this,’ Thomas murmured, his head tucked into the curve of Francis’ neck, his voice gentle.

‘Oh hush, lad, I should be doing the thanking - s’not often I get to look after you, you know?’ Francis spoke quietly, savouring the warm, damp body of his lover, and the heat of the fire, allowing it all to sink gently beneath his skin, ‘I’d do anything you wished of me, anything at all.’


End file.
